


Don't Panic

by RonnieSilverlake



Category: Naruto
Genre: M/M, Mourning, Non-Explicit, impressionism, intercourse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-06
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-07 02:43:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/426012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RonnieSilverlake/pseuds/RonnieSilverlake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bones, sinking like stones, all that we fought for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Panic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amusebouche](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amusebouche/gifts).



> Gift fic for my friend Lisa.

It rains that night.

Some say rain is purification, or God's tears on us for all the sins we committed. Some say that it's nature's relief.

For him, it's just plain ugly. Dirty water that ruins everything. Ruins battles, perfect moments where time stops for a moment in a blast of utter beauty. Ruins his resolve, because he feels like crying already, and he loathes himself for being so goddamned weak; not only because he could have changed the course of things, but because he left too many things unsaid.

But now it can all go and kill themselves. He can't be bothered to care.

The world can collapse, he wouldn't care anymore about it. Whatever happened, doesn't concern him anymore; he only has eyes for that small, parched, cylindric _thing_ with a lilac tint in his hands that doesn't even resemble its original shape anymore. It resembles nothing he remembers from the person it used to belong to. Now it is all he has left, the only part that could ever feel something... and even that may never have been true.

"Deidara."

Because his Sasori no Danna is dead, and even his body was taken by that so-called puppeteer of the Sand, so all he can have is the only part of him that had _lived_.

His heart.

"Deidara."

It is the second time someone calles his name, and the first time he actually recognizes that he was spoken to. He half turns around, his knees still on the grass in front of the small hole he dug - sad excuse of a grave, really, Danna would have deserved so much better -, and looks into a pair of eyes no less dead than his own.

"I don't want to see you right now." He wants to sound angry; he wants the other to know he really, _really_ wants nothing less than him bothering him with trivial things when all he wants to do was be left alone to mourn the only person he ever really cared for, but instead, his voice comes out as tiny and frail and very close to a wail. He hates it.

The other one doesn't say anything, but doesn't go away either. Deidara wants to turn away, but for a moment, he becomes mesmerized by his sight. The moon, even though it's only a few days after new moon, is right behind him, and it paints small silver lines onto his long, raven black hair. He isn't wearing his cloak, and, since he never wears anything else under it, he is naked from the waist up, and for a fragment of a second, the blond just stares at the raindrops running down his jaw to his collarbones, then even more down and down, until they reach his waist. Streaks of water run races on his nearly glowing skin, and as he just stands there, his face impassive as ever, Deidara believes he can see a flash of emotion; one he has never seen before.

oOo

He stands at the very same spot while Deidara buries the heart. It feels as if his look wants to burn a hole into the back of his head, even though he does nothing but stand there watching, getting more and more drenched by the minute, and it's all so _annoying_. He wants to be left alone. He wants to be able to cry, but all he is capable of is staring in front of himself murderously as if that definition of sociopathy standing behind was the one responsible for every bad thing that ever happened to the world.

After some time, the surroundings just blur together as it rains so much that he cannot even see properly anymore - or was it not that? It definitely was -, and that is when the black-haired man steps forward.

He feels the heart slipping out of his hands and gracelessly plopping into the hole on the ground; an only last memory of someone he didn't dare to hold close, and lost ultimately long before he fell by the hand of his enemies. It seems easy to let go now, as he realizes he didn't even own it first thing. He never owned it because he wouldn't have had the power to keep it. And just like that, it's gone.

The next thing that is lifted is he himself, and even though he wants to protest, it all feels so familiar, _too_ familiar to let go when the other doesn't seem to have any intention of letting him go anytime soon. The whys and hows don't even register. He goes completely limp; he doesn't think the other would care enough not to simply drop him and leave him there to rot; and honestly, he doesn't even want anything else at this moment than that exactly to happen.

But as it seems, the other does care, more than him at least.

It's so hard not to slip, covered by rain and dirt and recollections of things that never even occured.

So hard.

oOo

The next time he knows about himself, another kind of water is pouring on him. Much warmer and cleaner, and also stronger in an attempt to get him rid of all the mess he had gathered. His blond hair is soaked to his scalp, and the water trickling out of it runs around the stitches through his reattached arms as he props himself on his palms, sitting back on his heels and staring up at the water source, wondering how he got here in the first place.

He flinches as a pair of arms wrap around him; he is already warmed through somewhat, and they are so cold, it feels like freezing. He opens his mouth to say something as the owner of the arms kneel behind him, then he closes it again. He still feels like being in a dream, everything is just foggy and dull, even the pain that's been stabbing at where his heart is supposed to be, if it even exists. He sometimes wonders if his heart is made of clay too. It will definitely make things easier when the moment of his death comes. He wonders about that moment many times. He envisions it as something ultimately beautiful, something that will make him eternal - eternally fleeting.

But while that moment is still waited for, a clay heart would make living easier too. There wouldn't be a need to fake emotions that weren't there, and there wouldn't be a need to suppress ones that were there.

Or was he simply weak?

He can't even explain it to himself.

So confused.

oOo

"Deidara," the voice that had said his name so many times is yet again different. At first it was completely unimpressed, in a way that always made his blood boil, and yet it also made him admire in a way he didn't think possible; a way of looking up at someone you can barely see. Then later it turned into cold as he tried to live up by the impression and make himself and his art a name by destroying that magnificence he could've never surpassed, and ultimately failed with it. Finally it turned into something unexplainable, cool and distinctively unreachable, and yet soft in a way that made his hairs crawl with pleasure as they fell together when there was no other option for either of them.

This is, once again, different. It's warmer than ever before, and as the four syllables leave his lips, the blond bomber feels himself dissipate under his gaze. Things are changing.

Not always the wrong way.

oOo

"It's supposed to make you feel better," he says quietly, and the way he looks at him, his bare body, he feels his face flush. "Just as it always were," the other adds, and he has to fight the urge to shriek.

"That was before!" he snarls, and he fights, trying to bite with all the mouths he has that aren't sewn shut, and yet it all isn't enough, for he is being held down by both of his wrists, and the heaving of the other man kneeling over him tells him he has no chance of escape.

Maybe he doesn't want to escape.

"Before what?" the raven asks silently, and as he finally lets go, as if understanding his changing motives, he reaches up to untie his hair, and it falls between their stoned faces unrulily. Deidara looks away; he can't stand that look he's giving him.

"You know what I mean, you bastard."

A soft chuckle.

"You could very well call me by my name by now, after all the things we've done together."

"What!" He looks back at him by pure, startled reflex, then averts his gaze again, as he realizes he can't do it. "It's just sex."

The one above him stays silent, and he perceives that being unable to call him by his name is a wall that has always been there.

It's harder than admitting love; even the sort he doesn't believe in.

oOo

He can't even tell when he started admiring Sasori the way he did; probably long before he even knew how he really looked like. His first feeling wasn't for the boyish-looking man with the charming but empty look on his face; he knew it already back when he never came out of the ugly Hiruko in front of him. They just argued, he called him a brat, a foolish one for believing in something practically the opposite than his own, and yet instead of being offended, it somehow enchanted the younger one. Maybe it was because despite all his spite and unwillingness to even accept his existence amongst the same rank he existed, he took him under his wings, and he cherished this thought above all the roughness he had to endure along with the rest of it.

He also can't tell when it turned into something more; it was probably along the way he finally got to see the real redhead, even though it somehow disappointed him that he himself was just a puppet too - the only reason he hid this thought was out of the respect he had -, somewhere along the way he started calling him Danna, somewhere along the way he realized no art mattered when it came down to this.

But it just never fit. He tried, or so he tells himself, but it never fit in any way. He admits he's bad at it, so bad, he has no idea how to speak, he only knows how to blow things up. But even when he did try...

Sasori never responded.

oOo

He still has no idea what _he_ needed from him, but they just ended up crossing each other's way, and the loathing admiration that he held turned into another feeling, one he still savours like a sour taste in his mouth, the sort of taste you feel when you bite your own mouth by accident, salty blood and sweat-mixed saliva. Even now as their sweat mix together while he just lays there.

"So passive."

The answer is only a growl, one he never thought himself capable of toning. The bastard is playing with him, as he always has been - the difference is only that until now, he didn't quite care.

He hasn't a clue why he does now.

"This time it is for you, you know," the impassive voice says, but there is a hint of _something_ there that cannot be ignored. As he slips into him without preparations, he lets go of the wail that had been straining his throat for a while now; and yet nothing else comes. He is empty, once and for all.

"When was it ever for me?" he pants as the other starts to move; it hurts so much that he's seeing stars.

So rough.

Maybe that is exactly what he is in need of right now.

But how did he _know_?

oOo

He reaches up to grab his shoulders as the both of them move simultaneously, finally letting go of the passivity. It's not so painful now, but as the sharp feelings go away, the clear sight does too, and he once again finds himself surrounded by nothingness. He keeps thinking of Sasori, why can't he let go of Sasori? Memories they shared, memories he wanted to share with him but he was never interested in, memories he wanted to know about, but the other was too reluctant to tell about. Sasori, always Sasori. If love even existed, it was a cruel bitch.

From one point of view, this is just like the many other times. All those nights when he went to him, feeling little and expendable, and he, with that empty, beautiful face of his, welcomed him, for who knows what reason. Even if it was just a façade, he gave him what Sasori didn't, and that was the most he could wish for. Even if he felt guilty about it, even if he did betray something that didn't have trust to betray in him anyways, this he had to seize and not let go.

But that was before, when there was something to replace with it. Now, what is the point?

And yet, as he slides his hands moist from perspiration down his nipples until he reaches his abdomen, there's something about it that never was there before. Some unexplainable softness that they can't soak, so they let it go, let it soak _them_ up instead. He is now only supporting himself on one hand above the blond, catching the trailing hand with the other, raising it to his mouth with an unreasonably smooth movement that makes the bomber gasp for air, all the while never letting his gaze go.

Yes, this is definitely something different. Even if just vaguely, there's something...

But what?

oOo

As he becomes determined to find out just what exactly changed about them, he takes over the course of things, and, surprisingly enough, the other lets him. He encompasses his waist with his legs, not letting him out of himself, and pushes him back. The bastard's still cold hands are everywhere, practically burning against his warmed up skin, pale whitewash against burning rose-pink veins, the touch is almost hurtful. He wraps the other in himself in an attempt to heat him up, but he just stares back, and there's nothing beside some distinguishable curiosity and that strange, sour calamity in his eyes that he can't explain to himself.

His thighs are grabbed, and as they start moving again, he can't tear himself away from his eyes. He doesn't know what he's waiting for, but he knows there is a _moment_ that might hold explanations, and when it comes, he has to stare hard enough to catch it, or else it will be lost for eternity. And so he keeps his gaze locked while every other part of him explores freely, and as his breaths become shorter and more ragged, he knows the _moment_ is just as close as both of them are. It's in them, at that sensitive spot only the other can find, waiting to come with the rest of it.

oOo

It's spazz.

He can't even see properly, despite his resolve to catch that second. It's like a spasm, painful and momentary, and oh so beautiful. He has no idea what his death will be like, but he can't imagine it'll be any better than this. Much the same; explosion.

And as it all comes back in a rush that contains _much_ different stars for him than the beginning, the raven starts to speak.

He doesn't say much, but in the few words he does say, there is something that makes the last small frozen bit in his throat melt.

He doesn't break down, though he has a faint feeling that he should, but that is something he isn't capable of, not even in this after-detonation state that prickles all his skin cells. No, he just looks up at him, and confirms what he questioned, giving an answer he is finally enough to give.

He says his name.

oOo

"We live in a beautiful world.


End file.
